Mystery Is Gone
by montag
Summary: [Cath/Griss] POV of Grissom set after "Hunger Artist" (please review!)


Author : Montag  
  
Disclaimer : Yeah, yeah, yeah.  
  
Author's Note : I know most of you think Grissom is the most complex character, but I honestly think it's Catherine. I find she's always struggling between her dedication to her work and her personal responsibilities (e.g. her daughter). So, well this was my attempt (keyword: attempt) at trying to figure all that out through the eyes of one who knows her best (Grissom, undoubtedly, unquestionably, indisputably) and yet is still racking his brain for the answers that refuse to come.  
  
This is set post season two finale, where Grissom went to see his doctor who tells him he's losing his hearing.  
  
Feedback would be cool, thanks a lot.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Mystery Is Gone  
  
  
  
  
  
"Mystery is gone / So bring back the sun..." - Our Lady Peace -  
  
  
Sometimes I really do hate this job. It's hard to face carnage like this. It eats away at you if you don't let it out. It takes chunks out of your soul, your faith, your hope and fundamental belief in human beings. And sometimes I get so angry I can actually hate human beings. It's sickening what they can do to each other. It's strange because after a while, one gets to hate so much, they don't even know what's fueling it. They don't know what has to burn in order to make room for animosity. Things like understanding, sympathy, plain compassion for a life. But all this I have to tuck away in the back of my mind. How else would I be able to do my job?  
  
But she sees pass my pretense in such away that makes me cautious whenever I'm around her. I watch my actions, my words, constantly afraid she would pick up on something and confront me. That's the thing I'm horrible at: confrontations. Especially when I'm up against her of all people. She knows with everything I say, everything I do, I'm trying to cover up the mess that's always threatening to boil over. She knows all this. Yet neither of us speak of it even when we're alone.  
  
I guess as much as she's trying to figure me out, I'm trying to unravel her mysteries. I'm sure she has tons. Sure, she lets out her emotions, she talks, she does what she calls 'sharing', but there's more to her. Something I can't quite grasp as hard as I try. Sometimes it seems like she's wistful, as if her thoughts were encumbering her. I know she carries along with her small burdens she can't handle. But what they are? I'm positive I don't know. The most I could do is make a guess, knowing all too well it's not it at all.  
  
And what's more, whenever I do ask her to tell me what's going on, she always manages to cleverly turn everything around to back fire on me in that enigmatic way of hers. Sometimes she lets me in on her thoughts, but she's careful like me. She knows how to hide, and when to reveal. When to speak, and when to leave it well enough alone. And me? Well, better judgment always seems to get the best of me.  
  
And I hate calling her in when it's her day off. I usually avoid it, but some nights, I really have to. She's my last hope. I hate it, but I call her in, pulling her away from her daughter. She comes in though. She's, hands down, the most dedicated criminalist here. She comes through the front door, beside herself, but is quick to get down to work, putting aside her exasperation of having to pull graveyard like the rest of us instead of just refusing lividly, and protesting that it's her night off. I've never heard her protest when we needed her assistance, desperate or not. She shows up, regular time, regular attitude, regular degree of focus, as if it weren't her day off at all. I can tell she gets angry, but she makes the effort in order to help the rest of us. Not to say she's faking. If she's upset, you better believe she'll show you. If she's enthusiastic, she'll show you that too. She doesn't hide her emotions, but she hides herself.  
  
It's complicated. And I guess it's complicated because she herself is complicated. She displays her emotions, but she keeps the reason behind those emotions to herself. And even in anguish at the most horrible of cases, her smiles are genuine. She wouldn't smile if she didn't mean it. She wouldn't speak if the words meant nothing. She wouldn't give advice if she didn't follow it herself.  
  
It's hard to find a will like hers. She has to have the right amount of everything to keep her life in balance. That includes the right amount of drive to get her to come down like a ton of bricks on hit-and-runs, and yet just enough heart to speed home at eight to give her daughter a kiss and see her off to school. Similar to that, enough assurance and conviction to shoot someone like Syd Goggle, but enough childishness and mischievous attitude to tackle her daughter on the front lawn, and laugh until she cries. She doesn't let what she has to face at work affect her when she's making Lindsey French Toast and sausages Saturday mornings.  
  
And though she has many faces, one guise for suspects, another for her daughter, and one more for dealing with people like me, she never loses herself. I don't know how she manages. One moment she's seething, the next she's asking me if I'm okay, trying to figure out why ---  
  
"Grissom? You okay?"  
  
She's always worried about everyone else except herself. And that gets me worried. But she takes care of herself. She always has, always will. But deep inside, I really fear that one of these days she'll crumble under the weight of her responsibilities of being both a defender of the law and a mother who wants to see every one of her daughter's school plays.  
  
"Why do you ask?"  
  
"You just seem out of it these past few days." Her eyes are filled with concern. No, it's more than concern, but in such a way that it can't really be described with words.  
  
"I'm - I'm all right."  
  
"It sure doesn't seem like it."  
  
"No, I'm fine."  
  
"Liar." She teases. She stands across the counter from me in the kitchen, drinking a glass of milk.  
  
I look at the clock. It's ten in the morning.  
  
"It's ten in the morning, don't you want to get some rest?"  
  
"Nope."  
  
She's persistent. She knows when something's wrong. She knows when I don't feel like talking and when I do. She knows when to stop pushing and when to continue pestering me. She knows me inside out in ways that I never knew myself.  
  
"It's just it seems like you've been distant lately." She says.  
  
"Just lately?"  
  
"Well, more distant than usual."  
  
I don't answer, but she waits. She waits patiently, knowing that in a few moments I'd break the silence that always kills me. She can stand silence, but I can't. She knows that too, which is why she waits. I take a deep breath and answer:  
  
"I saw my doctor a few days ago."  
  
I can't bring myself to say the words that seal my fate. If I tell her, she'll get all you-know-I'm-here-for-you-right? on me. And I hate that. And she'll want to talk about it. But I don't want to talk about it. It'll burden her knowing the confusion I've been through these past few days. She has enough on her plate without me adding my own trouble. She doesn't need that. Yet she asks for it. She asks for me to make it her problem.  
  
"Yeah? So, what happened?"  
  
"Cath, I'm just going to come right out and say it..."  
  
She looks at me with apprehension blended carefully with expectance.  
  
"I - uh - I'm losing my hearing." I say clearly.  
  
She nods slowly. "Like your mother."  
  
"Like my mother." I confirm.  
  
This time I wait. I wait for her to say something to the effect of "It'll be all right", "I'll always be here for you", "Don't worry", and the ever-famous "You want to talk about it?".  
  
But she doesn't say any of those. I guess somewhere along those years we've been through together, she knows I know all these things already. Which I do. And words aren't necessary to communicate that. The silence does it. It's what she doesn't say that helps me through it.  
  
Her soft smile comes through her eyes replacing the apprehension with plain understanding.  
  
And another burden has been added to her load.  
  
I'm telling you, she'll fall apart one of these days with all that she carries around. She will.  
  
But I shake my head. Her smile tells me, "Not today."  
  
  
  
  
the END 


End file.
